


At the End of the Day

by frek



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-09
Updated: 2007-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:19:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frek/pseuds/frek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete hates to be alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the End of the Day

**Author's Note:**

> Written while listening to "I Want You to Know" by the Freelance Hellraiser.
> 
> Betaed by the fabulous Supergrover24 on LJ.

At the end of the day, when the cameras are gone, the tape recorders are put away, and the cell phones are shut off, there's only Pete. Not Pete-the-face-of-Fall-Out-Boy, but Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, a 27-year-old guy from Chicago, alone and far from home.

Sometimes he's at his house, sprawled on the couch, the TV on, a laptop nearby, and his dog laying next to him. A movie is playing in the background (usually The Nightmare Before Christmas) while he tries his hardest to fall asleep. Sleep usually doesn't come. Or it comes too late, hours after his thoughts have slipped more toward crazy and he's shared his inner-workings with the web and world. Eventually he puts the laptop away and turns off the television and curls up around Hemingway. Tries to sleep again. Maybe he's trying too hard. But isn't that his way? These nights, it's not only Pete. It's Pete and Hemingway, Jack and Sally, and sometimes the kids online.

He spends some nights driving around town, wasting gas and killing time. He's never been a good sleeper and habits like this don't really help, but whatever. The radio is always on. Sometimes it's quiet, sometimes it's loud. The music he plays is as varied as his mood (which some would argue is not very). Sometimes he'll sing along, the words flowing from his lips, not really knowing what he's singing, the words and the melody as familiar to him as his best friend's voice. Other times he'll drive silently, letting the words and music flow over him. He'll quietly absorb the emotions and intentions of the musician until he feels he's become a part of it all. His feelings reflecting the music, the music reflecting his feelings, unsure of where they came from, only that they're his now. Then it's not only Pete. It's Pete and Morrissey or Bowie or The Cure.

Not that long ago, Pete would spend his nights home, in Chicago, with his family. Most of those nights, he'd be holed up in his room, door closed firmly. It's not that he didn't want to be around his family, it was just too much for him. They knew him too well, worried too much. His mom especially. She was always asking how he was feeling or running a worried hand through his hair or over his shoulders. The nights he felt he could handle his family, he'd hang out in the living room, watching TV with his dad or play board games at the dining room table. Pete kicked ass at word games. He could beat everyone he knew at Scrabble or Scattergories. His brother and sister hated playing against him, but they did anyway. When he was home, it wasn't only Pete. It was Pete and his mom, dad, brother and sister. And even when he was locked up in his room, he still heard their voices and movements, they were still there with him.

There are a few nights here and there, nights when he feels especially desperate and lonely, that he brings a girl or some scene kid home with him. They always come thinking one thing, but Pete brings them home with him for another. They spend the night talking, staying up late, until the sky gets light. Pete isn't sure what they talk about, only that they usually listen intently, certain they're going to learn something amazing from his sleep-deprived rambling. He doesn't care why they listen, it makes him feel better that they do, that maybe he isn't just talking himself in circles. Eventually they end up in the bedroom, dropping into the bed, exhausted. That's part of Pete's way, keeping them awake until they're nearly passing out. At that point, Pete isn't anything more to them than a warm body to curl up next to. And if he's honest with himself, that's all they really are to him. Even his so-called girlfriends fall into the same category. Someone to listen to him talk and fall asleep next to. It's never only Pete on these nights. It's always Pete and some girl, kid, girlfriend, who he wishes were someone else.

The nights they're on tour, Pete's never alone. At least not physically. Joe's somewhere on the bus playing video games, small electronic noises and grunts of frustration coming from wherever he is. Andy's quiet. So quiet Pete wouldn't know he was there if it weren't for the fact that he had to be. Occasionally, he'd hear a breath or a page turn and Pete knew it was Andy. Patrick was different. He may seem quiet in most interviews and appearances, but on the bus, in his comfort zone, he's always making noise. Humming, tapping drumbeats with his fingers, a constant clicking and rattle of laptop keys, and, yes, singing. He always knows when Patrick is around. His voice always has a way of wrapping itself around him, shielding him from his own manic thoughts. On tour, it isn't only Pete. It's Pete and Joe and Andy and Patrick, his best friends in the world, the people he loves most to share his space with.

But Pete's favorite nights by far are the ones he spends alone with Patrick. Those nights are the only nights that Pete feels like he's not crawling out of his skin. When it's only Pete and Patrick, Patrick is much quieter, not the bundle of noise he usually is on the bus. They sit on the couch, out on the deck, or even in the car, listening to music play, sharing in the experience Pete usually reserves for himself. They tear apart melodies and lyrics, deconstructing them until their meaning is lost, and it's just all so many words and notes. Sometimes they turn the music off and talk. Most of the time it's Pete who does the talking, but sometimes Patrick talks. And Pete listens. It's a novelty to Pete, nobody ever wants him to listen, they always want Pete to do the talking. He loves listening to Patrick. He loves his stupid jokes and helping him through his worries. And in turn, Patrick does the same. He actually listens to and understands what Pete says. He genuinely cares. No other person he spends a night with does that.

Sometimes they play boardgames and Pete lets Patrick win. He loves the look of triumph in Patrick's green eyes when he gets the triple word score in Scrabble. Loves it more than most of the other things in his life. He doesn't let Patrick know, though, otherwise he'd never play, knowing that Pete was going easy on him. Patrick likes things to be fair. Pete just likes Patrick to be happy.

The thing that makes Pete happiest, though, is at the end of the night. They fall into Pete's bed, exhausted, but happy. Usually they're still talking, that sleep-deprived honesty where they just say what's on their minds, regardless of what comes out. Pete tells Patrick he loves him and Patrick smiles. Says he loves Pete, too. Pete runs his hand through Patrick's hair, the only time it's not covered with a hat. He loves the silky feel of Patrick's hair between his fingers, brushing the long strands out of his eyes, the look of contentment on his face making it hard for Pete to swallow. He hopes that he's the only one to bring that look to Patrick's face, wishes that more than anything. And before he knows what he's doing, Pete's face is close to Patrick's and their lips are meeting. Patrick's mouth is soft, gentle. He doesn't press for more, just takes as much as he is given. And Pete is thankful for that.

Pete runs his tongue over Patrick's lips, pressing inside, meeting Patrick's tongue. Patrick runs a hand up Pete's arm, settling on his jaw. Pete smiles as they pull apart, his eyes meeting Patrick's. He can feel the joy of the moment in his chest, almost like he could burst, wishing every moment could feel just like this. If he could spend every night with Patrick by his side he would. But that's not how his life works and he has to accept any time he gets to spend with Patrick as a gift. And those nights when Patrick isn't around, he just has to hope that they go by quickly, no matter how he spends them.

Because, really, when it all comes down to it, at the end of the day, when the cameras are gone, the tape recorders are put away, and the cell phones are shut off, there's only Pete. And sometimes Patrick.


End file.
